


in this life and time

by a_good_soldier



Series: HANDLING EXPRESSIONS OF WINCHESTER EMOTION: A FIELD GUIDE (or: supernatural s12 codas) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s12e03 The Foundry, Family, Gen, Guilt, Self-Esteem Issues, drunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8401114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_good_soldier/pseuds/a_good_soldier
Summary: An Implicit Narration Of Events By Dean Winchester, As Observed By His Brother Sam. (Or: Dean gets drunk and Sam is concerned.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR 12x03  
> ok so i was a little drunk when i watched this episode and i'm still a little drunk now tbh & like... ok. jared and jensen are not the best actors on the planet, but it's really awkward to watch samantha smith try to emote convincingly while jared and jensen are like "yes i am having emotions... at your completely emotion-less explanation of why you're ditching the only two people that you have a vague connection to in 2016." like ya it's logical that mary would want to leave, but man. what a time.  
> ANYWAy it still caused some Serious Emotions. also expect a second half (as in: dean is sober, they try to have this conversation, maybe cas will finally pop up in one of these. who knows!) sometime soon - probably after next monday because midterms are kicking my (beautiful) ass  
> also (last thing): title is from Kansas' "Angels Have Fallen." it's a great song! actually kansas' entire discography is great. 10/10 would recommend

Sam finds Dean in the kitchen that night, half a bottle into their cheapest whiskey. Dean’s tapping his empty glass against the table, taking swigs straight from the bottle.

 

“Dean,” Sam says softly, like he’s talking to a skittish horse. He waits until Dean looks up at him before rounding the table. “Hey, man, maybe you’ve had enough.”

 

Dean snorts. “Wha’, ‘cause I’m dr’nkin’ out’ the bottle? Naaaaaaaah,” he slurs, stretching out the vowel into incomprehensibility, “‘m just, y’know. ’S efficient.”

 

Sam nods, huffing out a half-assed laugh. “Right.” He attempts to pry the bottle out of Dean’s hand, but his brother’s not having it.

 

“Hey,” Dean protests, “don’— tha’s my beer drink. But not beer.” Sam finally liberates the bottle, and sets it on a counter behind them.

 

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says, turning around, “it’s not beer. It’s a bottle of goddamn ninety proof moonshine, and you’ve gone through about ten shots’ worth in two hours.” He sighs as Dean just starts shaking his head, right hand still in the shape of the now-vacated bottle. “Sometimes I hate your tolerance.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean laughs, finally letting go of his glass and running his hands over his face. “There’szz lotsa things.”

 

Sam sits back down, looking at his brother. “I mean, you’re not wrong,” he says eventually, “there are a lot of things, generally.”

 

“I _mean_ ,” Dean insists, with all the bravado of a man drunker than he realizes, “there’s lotta things to _hate_ ‘bout _me_.”

 

Sam knew what this was about, of course, but shit, he really didn’t want to be right. “Come on, man, that’s not true,” he says, knowing there’s no chance in hell of it getting through Dean’s booze-saturated brain right now.

 

“Is,” Dean remarks, convinced of his eloquence.

 

“Damn it, Dean.” Sam sighs, angry at his own negligence. He shouldn’t have left Dean alone for so long. It's just that they'd— Sam hadn’t been able to look Dean in the eyes, after Mom—

 

Anyway. “Look, maybe you should—”

 

“She _left_!” Dean yells, tears welling up. Christ, Sam’s too sober for this. “If I’d just been—”

 

“What? If you’d just been what, Dean? A four year old?” Sam stands up. “Dean, look, it sucks that she felt that way, but it’s not our fault we’re not kids anymore!”

 

“But it is my fault that Dad’s dead.” Dean stares blankly at the stove across from him. Sam moves to the chair in that seat, so Dean can’t avoid looking at him. 

 

“It’s not your fault Dad’s dead,” Sam says. “And look, the John she knew wasn’t even like our dad. There’s no way Mom leaving is either of our faults.”

 

Dean just sighs, and his hand drops heavily to the desk. Sam’s assuming that last drink is starting to hit him now, giving him a second drunken wind. “I’m sorry, Sammy,” he whispers, “I shoulda—”

 

He never does say what he shoulda; just starts sniffling right there, fingers sliding nervelessly around the table. “Okay, Dean, it’s time for bed,” Sam says, herding his brother down the hallway into his room.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean’s saying, over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m a friggin’ mess, God, Sammy—”

 

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam soothes, dumping him on his bed and arranging him so he won’t choke on his vomit in his sleep. He waits there until Dean starts snoring louder than a foghorn.

 

Then he walks into the hallway, closes Dean’s door very carefully, and shakes, sobbing, on the floor until it’s time for him to wake up.


End file.
